


terminal velocity

by zephryus



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Love, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, its mostly just dream simping for george but what else is new, its so fuckign saccharine sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephryus/pseuds/zephryus
Summary: Dream goes to sleep pressed up against George, feeling his heartbeat, strong and steady against his chest, thinking he could see himself fall in love with him.He wakes up, still holding George, distracted by every word he says, by the shape of his lips as he speaks, and realises he has fallen, irreversibly, irrevocably, and he can't bring himself to particularly care.(Or, they fall asleep together, and wake up together, and it's all very soft and tender)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 341





	terminal velocity

**Author's Note:**

> whats up here we are again babey!! this is my present to all of u xx

The sounds of the A/C unit working in overdrive against the Florida summer heat fill the silence between them for a few minutes as they catch their breaths.

“I liked that,” Dream says, still breathless, staring up at his ceiling. George had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars up there, back when he’d first moved in, as a prank - in the loosest definition of the term.

George turns to look at him, rests his head on his bent arm. In the back of his mind, Dream thinks they could be at a sleepover, seven years younger, bright with the obliviousness and ignorance of youth. His cheeks are still flushed red, the way they’ll be after he goes for a run, and his lips are swollen from Dream kissing him and him biting them to try to muffle himself. Next time, Dream thinks, he’ll urge him to make noise, be loud - they live in a big house, one that Dream owns, they can afford to be loud.

“Me too,” George says, quiet, like a secret. Dream’s distracted by the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way his lips curve with the syllables and the tug of the words on his cheeks - it makes him want to do absurdly soft and sweet things like kiss the corner of his mouth, like a confession. “We should do it more.”

“Yeah?” Dream doesn’t even try to keep the smugness out of his voice, though he thinks it’s smothered by the soft hopefulness he couldn’t hide even if he tried.

George’s laugh is a huff of air accompanied by the slightest smile, “Yeah.” 

“You can sleep here tonight, if you want,” Dream says, because he’s never had that good of an impulse control anyway, because he’s never done anything by halves.

George is quiet, and Dream thinks he’s fucked up, because they didn’t establish boundaries at the start of this - mostly because the start was an hour ago in their kitchen, and whenever they do establish boundaries, outside of fucking, they’ve been known to push and pull until they’ve worn thin.

“Okay,” he agrees, finally, and Dream’s jackrabbit heart slows down, “I’m gonna go clean up first.”

Dream is over six feet tall, and doing incredibly well-off, so he bought the biggest sized bed he could reasonably buy, and he’s been living here for over a year, sleeping in his absurdly big bed most nights and in all that time, he’s never felt as lonely as he does right now, in the absence of George, even secure in the knowledge that he’s coming back.

Running water joins the sounds of the A/C, under all that, he can hear cicadas if he listens close enough. A few minutes later, the water shuts off and George slips back into bed, facing Dream. He’s close enough that he makes most of the sounds that fill the silence - his breathing is steady and sure. Even in the relative dark, Dream can see the dampness darkening his hairline and his face. He thinks if he pressed a kiss to his temple the skin there would be cool and clammy.

There’s a question on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spilled out into the open, but he doesn’t want to ruin this moment, so he reaches out with an arm and gently, slowly, pulls George against his chest. “Comfortable?” Dream asks, with far more confidence than he has. He’s pretty sure George can see straight through him. He’s also fairly sure that George knows what he’s really asking. _Will you stay?_

George doesn’t bother with a verbal answer, instead threads his fingers with Dream’s and twists his head to kiss him on the soft skin just under the hinge of his jaw, where he’d bitten and licked a dark purple bruise an hour ago. _Yes_.

— 

In the morning, Dream wakes up in the same position he went to sleep in, with George tucked up against his chest, asleep, and his hand over his chest. Under his palm he can feel his heart beating a steady staccato. The sunlight streams in through the curtains he forgot to close last night and breaks over them, scattering over warm, incandescent light. 

Absentmindedly, he traces shapes and letters over George’s hands, fascinated by the simple way he can touch him. He looks younger in his sleep, relaxed. Everyone assumes, because Dream doesn't show his face online, that he’s more private and closed-off in person as well, but George is the one who’s so unwilling to give up parts of himself he’d rather appear bland and innocuous on the surface. When he’s asleep, he looks the most himself Dream’s ever had the honour and trust of seeing - he’s not acting for an audience, or taking in any of his surroundings, he’s merely himself and Dream can feel himself falling so fast he doesn't think he has time to fashion wings for himself. 

Looking at the way his eyelashes break the scattered sun to cast long shadows over his cheekbones, and the stubble making itself known on his jaw, and the plush, pink curve of his lip, and the chaotic, haphazard nature of his hair, Dream knows he’s falling, hard, and he can’t bring himself to care. 

George wakes up slowly, like he’s fighting against treacle and he doesn’t particularly mind if he loses. Dream knows he’s woken up because of the shapes he’s been tracing over him, George doesn’t wake up until he’s been woken up, by either a blaring alarm that startles Patches, or a call, set to go through ‘do not disturb’, or, apparently, soft, gentle touches.

“Morning,” Dream says, once George has made the Herculean effort of opening his eyes, squinting against the sun. 

George tucks his head into Dream’s bicep and lets out a tiny groan, mumbling something unintelligible. 

Dream laughs, and almost against his will and conscious thought, he says, “Sorry, baby, we have to get up.” The nickname slips out of his mouth like it’s been a permanent fixture in his sentences for months. Against his bicep, he can feel George smiling.

“Do we have to?” George asks, rough and mangled and mostly muffled, still speaking into Dream’s bicep. 

He just hums, noncommittal, in response. Technically they don’t _have_ to wake up and face the day, they don’t have anywhere to be, except to at least appear as functioning human beings. George shifts around until he’s facing Dream, still cocooned in his arms, squirming around until he’s comfortable again. He has to cross his eyes a little to keep him in focus, at this distance. He distracts himself with the faint freckles that dance over the bridge of George’s nose like the stars glued to his ceiling.

“Hi,” George says, his eyes are half-lidded, and he speaks like he’s moving through honey, slow and syrupy. All Dream can do is kiss him, ducking his head ever so slightly to gently press his lips against his, soft and slow and syrupy.

“Hello,” Dream says, and even he can hear it in his voice, in one simple greeting; he’s in love with him, wholly and entirely.

George smiles, still shrouded in sleepiness; he could hear it too. Dream thinks it’s ok, though, because the look George gives him, like he hung the moon and painted the constellations, tells him that he’s falling just as hard.

And, looking into George’s eyes, deep, dark, honey brown shot through with bright gold, at the gentle curve of his smile, the shadow of his stubble, taking in the man he loves lying warm and comfortable in his arms, Dream accepts he’s falling, hurtling towards terminal velocity, because he knows he's going to land safely, somewhere soft and wrapped up in George’s arms.

(George doesn’t think he could pinpoint when he realised he loved him, like Dream could, for him, he’d been falling before he’d even realised his feet had left the cliffside.)

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading! drink water and take care of yourself <3


End file.
